“It’ll never do to put that in first,” she said; “the masts would be broke. I guess I’ll fill the toe of the stocking with apples.”
“And where will you get apples?” said John Krinken, shaping the keel of his boat.
“I’ve got ’em,” said his wife,—“three rosy-cheeked apples. Last Saturday, as I came from market, a man went by with a load of apples; and as I came on I found that he had spilled three out of his wagon. So I picked them up.”
“Three apples—” said John. “Well, I’ll give him a red cent to fill up the chinks.”
“And I’ve got an old purse that he can keep it in,” said the mother.
“How long do you suppose he’ll keep it?” said John.
“Well, he’ll want to put it somewhere while he does keep it,” said Mrs. Krinken. “The purse is old, but it was handsome once; and it’ll please the child any way. And then there’s his new shoes.”
So when the boat was done Mrs. Krinken brought out the apples and slipped them into the stocking; and then the shoes went in, and the purse, and the red cent—which of course ran all the way down to the biggest red darn of all, in the very toe of the stocking.